


Like Fritos I'm Trying to Lay

by ellevaire



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Library, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, No Angst, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, pure self-indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 09:46:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4914763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellevaire/pseuds/ellevaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky drops the packet of fruit snacks by SGR's laptop, watching the doorway to make sure he isn’t coming back. He fishes an only slightly squashed granola bar out of his bag and sets it next to the fruit snacks and feels a little bit like a super spy pulling off a successful mission and reestablishes cover by shoving his headphones back on and schooling his face into a bored expression. </p><p>Bucky Barnes is a complete dork who shares a library table with the most beautiful guy in the world. He also leaves him snacks. Like Secret Santa, but with Twizzlers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Fritos I'm Trying to Lay

**Author's Note:**

> Ridiculous Kanye lyrics to title a ridiculous fic. I can't believe the response my other one got, so I figured I'd throw this one into the void. I hope the void likes pointless fluff.

Bucky has been in his favorite reading room in the library long enough that his strict twenty-minutes-work-five-minutes-Twitter routine has devolved into about three minutes of homework for every ten minutes of cat videos. He’s a little less than halfway through the three hour gap between his morning and afternoon classes and is heavily considering going downstairs to the cafe and getting some soup when someone sits down in the seat across the table and one to the right and he...he’s fucking beautiful.

Bucky forces himself not to stare across the table and clicks out of his latest cat video, just in case the beautiful guy is psychic and can tell that Bucky’s been giggling at kittens for the past twenty minutes. Instead, he puts on actual music and re-opens the essay he was working on and redirects all of his efforts into sneaking glances across the table. Adulting, fuck yeah.

There’s no other word for it--the dude is pretty. He’s got the jawline of (a very skinny) Adonis and a shock of bleach-blond hair that sticks up weirdly when he runs his thin, knobby hand through it. Bucky thinks he spots the edge of a tattoo when the sleeve of Adonis’s navy sweater pushes up, and god, his eyes. Those eyes could drive a man to a terrible fate, like writing poetry or singing country music. They’re just _so_ blue. Bucky is contemplating whether anyone would wear colored contacts when they’re already wearing glasses when he realizes he’s been--not staring, but longer-than-a-glance-ing. The guy looks up and gives Bucky a little smile and a nod, which Bucky returns. He thinks he does it casually.

He’s got half of the essay written and has managed to make some observations about Adonis on the sly. His laptop is covered in stickers, including one Bucky recognizes as the Bi Pride flag, and he may or may not surreptitiously adjust his own bag to make his “I’m here, I’m queer” pin more visible. Adonis also has one of those monogrammed backpacks, like the ones from L.L. Bean the rich kids in Bucky’s class had from fourth through sixth grade. The blue fabric is faded and worn, but stuck through with buttons like Bucky’s. The embroidery has started to come loose, but Bucky can still read the initials--SGR. He feels like a creep and returns to his essay, but wonders what SGR stands for. Seth? Scott? Sal? He doesn’t look like any of those names.

SGR also looks tired and hungry--the circles under his eyes rival those of a raccoon Bucky saw eating trash last week, and he keeps staring at the kid across the room who is doing is best to eat a footlong sub as loudly as possible.

SGR gives Footlong one last disparaging look and stands, stretching his arms above his head. He turns and leaves the room, but leaves his backpack and laptop, and before Bucky really knows what he’s doing he quietly follows him out of the room and fucking sprints for the vending machine downstairs. There’s no line, which is a blessing, because Bucky doesn’t know how long he’s going to be gone. What would he want to eat? And also, what the fuck is he doing? What the actual fuck? But fruit snacks are a safe bet, right? Everyone loves fruit snacks, don’t they?

He’s running out of time to make decisions. He figures he’s got two minutes, tops, if SGR went to the bathroom, so he goes with the fruit snacks (the good kind, that come in a bag and not a packet, because what the fuck honestly is even the point of the tiny packets) and sprints back to the reading room. SGR isn’t back yet, which is a fucking relief, and Bucky drops the packet of fruit snacks by his laptop, watching the doorway to make sure he isn’t coming back. He fishes an only slightly squashed granola bar out of his bag and sets it next to the fruit snacks and feels a little bit like a super spy pulling off a successful mission (probably, he doesn’t know how super spies actually feel) and reestablishes cover by shoving his headphones back on and schooling his face into a bored expression. Controlling his breathing is the hardest part because he has to pretend that running up and down some stairs isn’t the most exercise he’s gotten this week, but Bucky manages.

SGR returns a couple minutes later with a sheaf of papers in his hand. He looks understandably surprised at the appearance of food next to his laptop. He scans the room, which Bucky only kind of sees because he is definitely focusing on his paper, thank you very much. Finally, he smiles and sits down, tearing into the packet of fruit snacks. Every time Bucky can steal a glance across the table, he has the same little smile on his face.

It’s a good look on him.

 

Over the next few days, SGR graces Bucky’s favorite reading room in the library every day. They don’t sit at the same table all the time--Bucky’s favorite is the corner table (because no one is at his back and they can’t judge him for watching stupid videos) but the corner tables fill up quickly and He doesn’t always get there as early as Bucky.

Bucky tries to pack extra snacks throughout the week, which is pathetic, but he figures that he’s trying to do something kind so it might cancel out the pathetic-ness. He’s got little to no ulterior motive, anyway.

SGR usually leaves the room at one point or another, and when he does, Bucky sneaks over and leaves a snack for him. He gets the same little smile on his face every time Bucky leaves something, which in and of itself is incentive to keep doing it.

It’s Thursday afternoon (Bucky has Twizzlers, today) and SGR, in addition to looking tired and hungry, looks sad. Bucky worries that he’s not going to leave the room today, but eventually he gets up and slumps out.

Bucky considers leaving a little note. He quickly draws a cat hanging by its paws from a tree and scribbles “Hang in there” at the bottom. It’s a fucking terrible cat and his handwriting is, as always, atrocious, but he’s put in the effort already so he sticks the Post-It to the bag of Twizzlers and sets it on the table.

SGR’s smile is tired and smaller than usual when he comes back, but it’s there. When packs up and leaves the reading room, he leaves a little piece of paper behind. It’s still there twenty minutes later when Bucky gets up to go, and he grabs it as nonchalantly as possible on his way out. He’s not sure he pulls off “casual” because his heart is racing and the entire room can probably hear his pulse. He doesn’t look at it until he’s safely hidden in the stacks, which is stupid, he’s aware, thanks very much. It’s just a little drawing of a cartoon version of SGR, and he’s smiling with a handful of long straw-looking things, which are probably supposed to be Twizzlers.

There’s a little note at the bottom in surprisingly neat handwriting.

“Hey, you. Whoever you are. Thank you for the snacks. If I knew who you were I’d...never mind. Well, I’d pay you back somehow, but since you’re anonymous, please accept this drawing and my gratitude. :) P.S. does the Met know one of its priceless treasures is missing?” There’s a tiny face with whiskers and pointed ears next to the postscript, which Bucky assumes is supposed to be his terrible cat. It’s charming as hell.

He gets a series of little drawings over the course of the next few days. They don’t always have little notes on them and they’re not always little cartoons--some of them are drawings of the view outside the window and all of them are better than anything Bucky could draw. He keeps every single one.

Bucky hasn’t told Natasha that he’s leaving snacks for a complete stranger at the library because that’s a whole new level of pathetic, but she busts him when she comes home early from a bar on Sunday night and he’s in the kitchen attempting to make cookies. It’s partially--mostly, even--because he’s in the fall spirit and the leaves are changing, and partially so he can leave them in the library.

Hmm, no, still a little pathetic. Get it together, Barnes.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m baking Easy Pumpkin Cookies, Natalia. People bake,” he says defensively.

Bucky thinks she says something like “what the shit” under her breath.

“You are not people who bake, James.”

“What are you doing?” he asks as she pulls out her phone.

“Instagramming this for posterity. I didn’t know you even knew how to use a measuring cup.”

He doesn’t know how to use a measuring cup, not really. Easy pumpkin cookie, his ass. He’s about ready to burn the entire apartment down and himself with it in frustration.

It takes two attempts and some help from Natasha on the second, but the cookies turn out pretty fucking well and they even doubled the batch so they have enough to eat while they bask in the satisfaction of a job well done.

Natasha digs the finer details out of him when they’re slumped on the couch, kitchen cleaned and both of them a little sick from too many cookies, watching the Harry Potter Weekend for about the thousandth time. By the time the full story is out, Bucky isn’t sure he’s ever heard her laugh so hard in her life, and threatens to revoke all cookie privileges and never bake again.

“You’ve never baked before anyway! I think I could handle making those again, but you’re right, you’re right, I shouldn’t laugh,” Natasha says, curling up and draping herself over Bucky’s lap. “It’s cute. What does this guy look like?”

“He’s shorter than me and has platinum blond hair, very skinny, giant blue eyes, loves Twizzlers and tattoos and draws well.”

A weird look crosses Natasha’s face.

“Oh, James,” she says.

“Don’t you ‘Oh, James’ me.”

 

Bucky leaves a sandwich bag of cookies and paperclips an index card with a list of ingredients to the bag (just in case He has food allergies) and leaves it for SGR on Monday. He lets himself glance across the library a little more than usual and is rewarded with a straight hour of that little smile. Bucky doesn’t get a drawing today, but a sticky note that reads, “Holy shit these are incredible. I hope you didn’t poison them but if you did I’m not sure I’d care.”

The note puts no small amount of bounce in Bucky’s step, even though his throat is feeling scratchier by the minute and it’s pouring down rain and the temperature has dropped significantly by the time he leaves the library.

It’s still pouring down rain when Bucky arrives home later that afternoon and he’s soaked through to the bone and shivering, having sacrificed his jacket to try to protect his books and laptop from getting wet.

“Good god, Yasha, who drowned you?” Natasha asks with as much concern as Bucky has ever seen her show.

“Motherfucking Nature,” Bucky says, dropping his bag on the linoleum tile and kicking off his boots. “I’ve got way too much due Thursday night so I might head back to the library after I change and--”

“You are not going back out in this mess.” Natasha gives him a hard shove toward the bathroom. “You are going to take a fucking shower before you freeze to death.” She slams the door to the bathroom.

Well, a hot shower does sound pretty good, and it might help with warding off the headache Bucky can feel blooming behind his eyes.

Natasha bursts in just as Bucky is about to step into the shower. His scream is a little less manly than he was hoping for.

“Knocking! Do they not have knocking in Russia, you witch?” Bucky asks, covering his junk with his hands and stepping into the shower.

“You left your fucking sweatpants and towel, dumbass. And I’ve seen your dick before, James, it’s nothing earth-shattering.”

Bucky cups his dick protectively.

"Don't listen to her, little guy."

"Little isn't a word I'd use, though," Natasha says, slamming the door behind her.

 

Natasha might be a witch--Bucky would like...bet actual money on it--but she very kindly hung his towel and clothes on the towel warming rack (one of her weird European things, even if Bucky secretly loves it and never wants to be without one again) and he promises himself he’s going to be extra nice to her. For at least a couple of days. A week, tops.

Even though he feels about a million times better after a long, hot shower, and blessedly warm clothes, Bucky still starts coughing as he’s pulling on freshly warmed fuzzy socks (another thing he secretly loves).

He drags himself into the living room, pulling the afghan from the back of the couch and cocooning himself in it.

“I made soup, you want some?”

“Is it borscht?” Bucky asks, even though he’s in no position to turn down soup and anything Natasha touches in the kitchen is gold, so he’d probably actually eat her borscht.

“It’s potato and dumpling, asshole.”

“Yes, I would please like some soup.”

Natasha rounds the corner and stops short at the sight of him curled up on the couch.

“And you were going to go back to the library tonight?”

“I feel like microwaved garbage,” Bucky says, sitting up to accept the bowl from Natasha.

“At least you’re hot garbage, then.”

Natasha acts like an Ice Queen, but she does know how to make him smile.

 

Bucky does homework intermittently until ten, still coughing and unable to focus for longer than a few minutes at a time. Not long after giving up the ghost he falls asleep and manages to sleep off and on until five. He sets his alarm for an hour and tries to go back to sleep, but barely manages a fitful doze.

At six, he feels worse than he did an hour ago. His room is cold and even wearing a hoodie and socks, he shivers his way into the bathroom, hands almost shaking too hard to get the thermometer into his mouth. 102. He’s not off to a great start by any means, but he takes Advil and chases it with a glass of water, then shuffles into the kitchen and forces himself to eat some toast. Bucky grabs his laptop and books and makes a little nest of blankets and pillows while his tea is steeping. He loads the tea up with honey and lemon and retreats to his room.

Back in his nest, Bucky sends out emails to his professors to let them know he won’t be in class and fires up Netflix. He zones out to Deep Space Nine until Natasha pokes her head into his room at twenty to eight.

“Hey. You look like shit,” she says.

“Hey. You look...really fucking regal, actually,” Bucky says, because it’s true and he’s never seen Natasha look anything less than stunning, even when she was breaking things off with him. It’s unfair. She’s still in her fucking pajamas.

Her mouth goes a little lopsided at the compliment, like she’s trying not to smile.

“You want me to bring anything back?”

“All of the soup. Every single...just...oceans of soup.”

“I’ll get right on that.”

 

Bucky spaces out again, vaguely registering the sounds of Natasha leaving. He’s gotten through three episodes of Star Trek when it hits him: He’s not going to be able to leave a snack (gummy bears and a Capri Sun) today.

He sits bolt upright, digging through the nest for his phone, and calls Natasha’s Not-Boyfriend, even though he hears them through the wall all the time, watching House of Cards at full volume. After they fuck.

“Hey man.” Clint answers after the third ring.

“Wanna do something a little weird for me? I’d owe you one.”

“Dude, I know you broke your arm, but I can’t give you a handjob again, that was one time, and I’m pretty exclusively interested in Natasha-shaped people right now.”

Bucky stares at his phone.

“Okay, we’re gonna come back to that in a minute. I’m not sure who you think you’re talking to, but this is Bucky, Nat’s roommate.”

“Oh, you’re not--oh. Okay, you’re hot, and I’m down, but Natasha is surprisingly vanilla and I don’t think she’d be cool with a threesome, just warning you.”

“Fucking Christ. Is that what you’re normally doing at ten in the morning on a Tuesday? Don’t answer that. Listen, I just need you to give something to someone at the library, if you’re free?”

“I think I can handle that. I need to give what to who?”

“Uh, okay, this is super lame, but I need you to go to the big Hogwarts-looking reading room in the library and give a snack to someone. His name is S--uh, okay. He’s a little on the short side, skinny as shit and has bleach-blond hair and blue eyes. Like, really blue eyes. And glasses.”

“Did you say a snack?”

“Uh. Yeah. And um, this is another weird thing, he can’t see you do it. He usually leaves the room at some point, and you can do it then.”

“Let me get this straight: Go to the library and give a snack to a skinny little blond guy, but only when he’s not there.”

“Yep, that’s pretty much it.”

“Okay, I think I can handle that.”

“Thanks, buddy, I owe you one.”

 

Bucky gets up eventually to take more medicine and drink more tea. He really does have a shit ton of stuff due this week, so he puts in three or four hours of solid effort, knocks out seventy percent of his to-do list for the week, and resolutely Does Not Think about SGR. It’s not that he’s worried about Clint totally fucking it up, but he’s not even sure Clint has set foot in the library. He’s smart as all hell but Bucky has never seen him open a book, and his laid-back attitude about literally everything is both inspiring and infuriating.

He hears the door open at four-thirty, and Natasha’s boots and Clint’s voice in the hallway. Oh god, he looks like complete shit. Clint is never going to think he’s hot again.

Natasha pokes her head in again.

“I have soup.”

Bucky drags himself out of bed and into the living room, at least attempting to tame his wild bedhead with an elastic. Natasha is waiting to pounce as soon as he opens the door.

“Have you been taking your medicine? Your head still feels warm.”

“I take it again in an hour, jeez.”

Clint looks him up and down.

“You’re still hot, I’d bottom for you. Oh, and here.”

There’s no note today, just a drawing of a potted plant. Bucky sticks it to the cork board above his desk.

 

Bucky feels better enough the next day that he would feel guilty not going to class. Natasha sends him off with cough drops and medicine, just in case, and it’s a good thing because his head is throbbing by the time he gets to the library. Bucky spends the first ten minutes of his library time googling cough drop overdoses and the next half hour listening to his chill playlist with his head down. It helps, a little, and he feels revived enough to go refill his water bottle so he can take ibuprofen for his headache. In the bathroom, he splashes his face with cool water and, well, he’s probably as awake as he’s going to get.

When he slides back into his seat in the reading room, there’s a big white Starbucks cup sitting next to his laptop. Two paper labels stick out. Bucky opens the lid and sniffs. Green tea. He takes a sip, and it’s made perfectly, with plenty of honey and lemon. He replaces the lid and looks at the cup, twisting it around before catching the writing on the side.

Someone has written “My turn.” in familiar handwriting. Below, there’s a phone number scrawled next to a poorly drawn cat.

[Sent 12:13 PM] Hello?

[Received 12:14 PM] Hi, who is this?

[Sent 12:14 PM] The horribly sick asshole who’s coughing up a storm in t he library reading room

[Sent 12:14 PM] *the

[Sent 12:15 PM] Thanks for the tea, btw. You’re a lifesaver.

Bucky looks up, scanning the room for SGR’s familiar blond head. Bucky spots him two tables away, typing frantically on his phone, and smiles.

[Received 12:17 PM] Horribly sick asshole or snack guy, who is an actual angel in disguise?

[Sent 12:19 PM] ...is it awkward if i say both? And can I just apologize for being weird and trying to feed you every day for a week right noe?

[Sent 12:19 PM] *now

Bucky glances around again, heart thundering through his chest, and meets SGR’s eyes. He gives a small wave and gets one in return.

[Received 12:20 PM] Wanna get out of here?

[Sent 12:20 PM] Yes

 

Bucky packs his bag with shaking hands and takes a deep breath. Come on, Barnes. You could probably take him in a fight. It’s oddly not a comforting thought.

“Hi,” SGR says when Bucky reaches the hallway.

“Hi,” Bucky says.

“I’m Steve.” He sticks out a thin hand. It’s surprisingly warm when Bucky grasps it.

Steve. Mystery solved. Steve suits him, better than fucking Seth would.

“I’m Bucky--James--whatever you want to call me.”

“Uh. I’d, uh. I’d like to call you my date tonight, if you’re not too busy,” Steve says hopefully.

“I am. I am so unbelievably not busy tonight,” Bucky says. “Also, holy shit that was the most suave thing anyone has ever said to me ever.”

“To be totally truthful, I surprised myself right there, so don’t expect it to happen again. Any place you’d like to go in particular?”

“It’s not the fanciest, but how do you feel about grilled cheese?”

“Is that even a question? I fucking love grilled cheese.”

 

“How did you know it was me?” Bucky asks, once they’ve been seated at the table and the server has taken their drink order.

“Honestly? I lost one of the pins on my bag on Monday and thought it might have fallen off in the library. When I doubled back I saw you pick up the note I left you.” Steve takes a sip of his water. “You’re also one of the only people who’s in the library every day, and even though you weren’t there yesterday, I recognized Clint. We have a class together, and I may have also totally ruined it because I went over to talk to him and he didn’t hold up very well under interrogation.”

“Well aren’t you just a regular Hardy Boy.”

 

It turns out that they get along like a house on fire. Upon closer examination of their social circles, Bucky is surprised that they haven’t met before. They have mutual friends, or friends-of-friends, and mutual interests. They’re both in the liberal arts college and bond over their appreciation for Bruce Springsteen and eighties horror films and talk about books and comics until the restaurant staff shoos them out.

All in all, it’s the best date Bucky has been on in a long time, and he manages to wait two whole minutes after parting ways before he texts Steve. Steve, for his part, managed about a minute before texting about a second date.

  


Bucky wakes up with his face in Steve’s shoulder and wiggles around to check his alarm clock. It’s half past eight and it’s a Saturday, which means he can hide from the cold in bed with Steve for as long as he wants. The second date turned into the third and the third turned into the fourth and before they knew it, they’ve been dating for a month and a half--the best month and a half of Bucky’s life--and taking it slow. Recently they’ve been testing the waters of a sexual relationship, and Bucky is secretly thrilled that they’re as compatible physically as they are in seemingly all other ways.

Beneath him, Steve shifts into awakeness, gently stroking his hand up and down Bucky’s naked back.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Bucky says, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“Hi,” Steve says blearily.

“Hmm,” Bucky says, rolling so he’s more fully on top of Steve. “You left me a snack,” he says, sliding down Steve’s body and under the covers. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, but you should.”

“It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

Their pleasure is hazy and bright and Bucky feels so--content and fucking _happy_.

“I think I love you, SGR,” he says into Steve’s hair, after they’ve both come and then dozed, wrapped up in each other, until a more reasonable hour.

“I think I love you too, Snack Guy,” Steve says, smiling into Bucky’s chest.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 4.2k is apparently the magic number of words in a self-indulgent, fluffy meet-cute. I was writing one kind of from Steve's point of view and then this happened, like, completely on accident. Anyway.


End file.
